Two years and Never Again are Two Different Things
by LadyTARDIS
Summary: A different take on how The Empty Hearse could have happened if Johnlock was more cannon that it already is! This is my first fic ever so constructive reviews would be awesome! Play nice everyone and be gentle, its my first time!


In the two years since the fall, John Watson was finally beginning to believe that he was adjusting to life without his best friend, partner, and love of his life, Sherlock Holmes. John no longer had to remind himself to breath. Blinking no longer took conscious effort. John had even managed to return to his job at the surgery. John no longer woke up in the mornings reaching for Sherlock's tall form where it used to lie next to him. No more did he constantly daydream about running his surgeon's hands through Sherlock's dark curls one last time. Though John's dreams, or nightmares, as he slept were another story entirely. He had finally built a barrier in his heart and mind to where he could avoid thinking about the love of his life until he was truly alone, where there was no one to see how much remembering tore John to pieces.

Life seemed to move forward at a painstakingly slow pace… but at least it was moving again. At least it didn't stand as still as John himself had when he watched his love plunge to his death. The world had begun to turn at a blessedly normal pace rather than spin wildly out of control as it had when John checked Sherlock's pulse on that day nearly 24 months ago.

John thought that life was, at last, moving forward and he was functioning or at least appeared to be functioning, as a normal man would in London. He had even managed to make a new friend outside of his old life with Scotland Yard and... Sherlock (even thinking his name still stung). This new friend was Mary Morstan. They'd met at the surgery and had immediately became friends, but John quickly realized that he could never offer her anything more. John Hamish Watson was broken without his consulting detective and he'd told Mary the same about two months after they'd met when she tried to snog him at the pub they'd met at for a pint after work. John knew he would forever mourn the loss of Sherlock and didn't think he could ever be with someone else that way ever again. Mary, being the saint that she was, understood completely, and after laughing off the almost-kiss they became best mates. John being there for Mary when drunk blokes tried to cop a feel in the pub, breaking a jaw or two when they became too forward with the former RAMC captain's best mate. Mary was there when tall, curly haired brunettes walked into the surgery and John had to work to maintain composure. Mary was also there to divert these few men to the other doctors on duty to save her shattered friend heartache.

Mary was an orphan and knew what it was like to lose someone; she sympathized with John but never treated him like he was incapable of anything because of his grief. John appreciated the refreshing company of someone who didn't walk on egg shells around him; it made him feel as if he wasn't as broken as he knew he was without Sherlock. This is why they could sit at the pub now, after six months of friendship, and relax after an extremely long day at the surgery. It was a seemingly ordinary night, other than the fact that the anniversary of Sherlock's death was rapidly approaching at a steam engine's pace. Mary had sensed it and that's why she'd invited him for a drink; she knew that it was incredibly tough for John on this seemingly regular Friday at the pub… seemingly.

Unbeknownst to John and Mary, outside stood a tall figure clad in a dark, expensive, wool coat, a figure with ludicrously curly, dark hair and ice blue eyes. These placid eyes bored through the glass of the pub and stared longingly at the army doctor seated at the bar.

Sherlock Holmes had been gone for almost two years, two years that he spent dismantling James Morairity's massive criminal web and longing for London (as well as a certain Army Doctor). There wasn't a single day in these two years that went by without Sherlock remembering the reason why he was abroad and his name was John Hamish Watson. Morarity had forced Sherlock off the roof of Saint Bart's the only way possible, by threatening the people that he cared about most. Sherlock had been dead, and had stayed dead, to protect John from the web of criminals who would surely kill him if they knew Sherlock was alive. Now that threat was gone, with Sherlock's eradication of Morarity's Serbian contacts, John was safe, regardless of Sherlock's life status.

Today, however ordinary it may seem to John was the day Sherlock had spent two years waiting for. Today is the day that Sherlock gets to come home to his Army Doctor and forget that any second of their two year separation ever happened. This was day when Sherlock could forget all the cold nights alone, days spent in cluttered hotel rooms with maps and diagrams fixed to the walls, and hours under various instruments of torture. Sherlock could finally put these moments in his past where they belonged, away from his future, which belonged to one person and one person only… John. He no longer had to hold internal conversations, conversations that threatened his sanity at times, with the love of his life that was not there. John's voice didn't have to haunt Sherlock any longer because Sherlock was approximately 12.5 feet from its source.

As Sherlock stood outside the glass window he became increasingly aware of several things, the first of which being that he was extremely anxious. Sherlock Holmes was _never_ anxious. Being a high functioning sociopath normally meant that, outside of his love for John Watson, Sherlock never felt much of anything. So the small beads of perspiration forming in his forehead and the fluttering of his heart surprised him as he turned and pushed the bar doors open.

Sherlock also knew that he was extremely excited; he finally was going to be able to love his army doctor with impunity again. There was nothing standing between them now. So instead of going with a more cautious approach as his anxious mind screamed at him he decided that he was going to surprise John. After all, it had been two years. Surely, the man he loved had to have missed him dearly.

As with all momentous occasions Sherlock felt that this reunion should be met with champagne. Forming his plan he walked up to the far corner of the bar, so that John was facing away from him, and begged a list off the barkeep. Blessedly, though Sherlock had no idea how they managed it, the pub had one champagne listed. Sherlock ordered a whole bottle and sent it to John… and his drinking companion. This was the first time Sherlock had noticed Mary, and he was not entirely pleased. Not for the last time, Sherlock felt jealousy. Who was this woman, and what was she doing with _his_ army doctor? As the pair received the champagne Mary, looked at Sherlock and waved as she mouthed _thank you_. John, however, did not turn around.

Needless to say Sherlock was quite pissed off. The whole plan was for John to turn around to thank a stranger for champagne and to see Sherlock smiling back at him, and then they would run into each other's arms and never be parted again. _Ok, maybe not that bit, _mused Sherlock, chuckling at the inescapable sentiment in his though process. _On to plan b then,_ Sherlock thought to himself, _it seems a more direct approach is required for _my_ army doctor. _Sherlock returned Mary's wave and, holding himself back from sprinting, began to take long, torturously slow strides over to her and John.

"Thank you for the champagne love," spoke Mary as Sherlock arrived, "might I ask what the occasion is?" she continued. John took a pull on the beer he was holding and _still _didn't turn around. Sherlock was borderline infuriated with his love now,_ honestly John, this is a bit more important that fermented wheat._

Sherlock calmed his anger and, taking a deep breath, he replied, "For the homecoming of an old friend." John froze, beer glass touching his lips. There was just no mistaking Sherlock's deep baritone. John had always sworn that he could live 1000 years without ever hearing it again and he'd still recognize Sherlock's black velvet voice. "Interesting thing champagne," Sherlock continued, "It can only be called champagne if the grapes are grown and fermented in a single, specific region of France and yet it is used for formal and momentous occasions all around the w-." Sherlock was interrupted by John slamming his, thankfully, nearly empty glass onto the bar, which he was using to steady himself. John slowly turned to face the man he had believed to be dead until a few short seconds ago.

John is torn between so many emotions that the bar which he now holds in a death grip is probably the only thing keeping him standing as he looks into the crystalline blue eyes that he thought he'd never see again. John is in shock, surprised, overwhelmed with joy, and filled with pain, massive amounts of pain that roll through him like tidal waves. These tsunamis of pain reverberate in his mind with three little words _Sherlock is alive. _

"Well, short version," his deadman speaks again, "not dead…" John holds Sherlock's gaze, the pain in his eyes turning slowly to burning anger… his consulting detective had been alive the entire time, _and he hadn't said a word!_ "Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defense, it was very funny," nervously chuckled the no longer dead man. Though if he continued to laugh that status might change, for John's gaze, which Sherlock is not meeting, is turning murderous. "Okay, it's not a great defense," murmured Sherlock nervously as he slowly begins to realize just how many lines he's crossed with his, now probably ex- lover. This reunion is certainly not going anywhere close to what he had planned.

Mary, finally realizing who, and what, Sherlock is gasps, "Oh no! you're…"

"Oh yes." Sherlock cuts her off.

"Oh, my God." Mary stammers.

"Not quite." retorts Sherlock.

"You died. You jumped off a roof."

"No,"

"You're dead!" cries Mary.

"No. I'm quite sure. I checked."

"Oh my God. Do you have _any_ idea what you've done to him?" continues Mary, appalled at Sherlock's lack of tact. This statement guts Sherlock to the quick. What has he done to John? He is obviously not as pleased to see Sherlock as he had previously assumed he would be. Could Sherlock, in his attempts to protect the man he loves, have caused even more damage than the sniper's bullet his bled to stop? Sherlock immediately attempts to rectify the harm to John.

"Okay, John, I'm suddenly realizing I probably owe you some sort of an apol-" Sherlock's stammering apology is once again cut off by John slamming something into the bar, this time it's his right fist.

John heaves in a breath as he realizes that he wasn't breathing throughout Sherlock and Mary's entire exchange. "Two years," he gasps out, "two years, I thought…" John loses voice again, it's been stolen by the whirlwind of emotions that have hit him harder than he wants to punch/kiss/slap/fuck Sherlock right now. _Holy shite where did that last one come from, _thought John. He takes another deep breath, "I. Thought. You. Were. Dead." John pauses again his face mangled in pain and every other emotion known to man, "and, you let me grieve, hmm? _How _could you do that?" his voice breaks at the last bit and he looks back into Sherlock's concerned eyes, _you of all people_. John sees that his lost love is realizing the amount of pain and rage and lust (_there's that one again, what's this got to do with anything_ thinks John) and heartbreak he is in, and its killing him. _Good, _thinks John spitefully, _he's understanding. _"How could you do that to me?" John asks again, this time his voice is tainted with malice and anger.

"Wait!" interrupts Sherlock as John's breathing becomes more ragged in his rage, "before you do anything that you might regret ..." Sherlock tentatively continues. Not sure how to proceed he decides, wrongly, that accusatory humor is the way to go, "Who the hell is she?" he spouts, pointing at Mary who laughs once in utter disbelief. Sherlock then hears John moving before he feels his body slam into him with the force of the rugby player he once was.

Twenty minutes later the trio has been thrown out of the pub and is sitting in a small diner three streets away. It is here that Sherlock informs John that the reason that he was away was to disassemble Moriarity's criminal organization. John is only interested in the reason why no one could know that Sherlock was alive. It is at this question where Sherlock makes another in a long line of mistakes he will continue to make that night by correcting John. Several people knew he was alive including Molly Hooper, Mycroft, several people within his organization, and approximately 25 of Sherlock's own homeless network. It is at this correction that John then busts Sherlock's lip and gets them thrown out of the restaurant.

Thirty minutes later the three of them end up at a sandwich shop four more streets over. Where John and Sherlock have a yelling match from the moment they first step into the place. John screaming that all he would have needed was a single word to know that the love of his life was alive and well and Sherlock countering by stating that it was too dangerous, if too many people knew he was alive Moirarity's accomplices would have come after John. Sherlock then pleads with John for help on a new case, something to do with an underground terrorist organization. John stares at Sherlock in disbelief at the audacity of the request. It is almost dawn at this time when Sherlock bends and places his face mere inches from John's and whispers, "You _have_ missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the worl-" and is, once again, interrupted, for the final time that night by John breaking his nose. Predictably, the owner throws John, Sherlock, and Mary, who has been playing the role of mediator all night, out into the streets of London one last time.

While John calls Mary a cab, Sherlock dabs at his bloody nose with a wad of napkins taken from inside the sandwich shop. "I don't understand," speaks Sherlock in a nasal voice, due to his busted beak, "I said I'm sorry. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

"Gosh. You don't know anything about human nature, do you?" spurts Mary at Sherlock.

"Mmm, nature?" replies Sherlock. "No…" he continues, "Human? ... No." he admits.

"Ugh," exasperates Mary, "I'll talk him round," but John's friend never gets the chance. When Mary gets into the cab, John slams the door with more force than necessary and storms off in the opposite direction.

"Where are you going?" shouts Sherlock at John's retreating form.

"For a walk," John spits back spitefully, "don't wait up." The bitter words have their desired effect as they sting Sherlock. John is hurting, and frankly quite pissed off at Sherlock, and doesn't care much for any discomfort he is causing his love.

Finally, Sherlock takes a hint and heads… _home_, to Baker Street, a place he hasn't seen in two years. He realizes halfway there with a start that he now has to tell Mrs. Hudson of his greatly exaggerated demise and makes a mental note to be a bit more tactful than he was with John. Mrs. Hudson does not have the young, healthy heart of his army doctor. A heart that he is now undoubtedly sure that he has smashed to pieces with his absence and sudden reappearance.

John walks all day. He loses track of how many miles he stomps around London and sometimes he loses track of where he is. As he trudges through the bustle of the Saturday crowds he thinks and sorts out all his feelings, and he has enough of those to last him a lifetime.

The initial hatred and rage of Sherlock's betrayal have begun to wear off and now John is left to deal with the ache of having a hole in his heart filled so suddenly again. The hole in question being one he'd previously convinced himself would be vacant forever. John's eyes sting with uncried tears and his heart aches with the return of his consulting detective. How could Sherlock do this to him?! How could the man he loves be so inhuman to him? John cannot answer these questions. Maybe once he could have, back when it really was him and his consulting detective against the world. When John could read Sherlock's thought just as easily as the deductive man could read his. The two years apart had changed a lot; John was out of practice where Sherlock was concerned. John's heart pangs at this revelation, knowing Sherlock was alive and that they were still so far apart stung worse than a thousand bees.

_Sherlock is still alive… SHERLOCK IS STILL ALIVE! _This thought finally slams into John oh so suddenly in his pain. So, unexpected… while John had been walking for hours the fact that the love of his life is, in fact, alive never truly hit him until now. With this revelation John is then, finally, overwhelmed with the joy of Sherlock being back and alive. His detective lives! The unshed tears of heartache quickly turn to those of happiness. Memories of Sherlock, only a few hours old flash through his mind, he notices that, in these new memories, his detective is slightly more muscled than when he last saw him, possibly from being on the run from international criminals for two years. John very quickly comes to the realization that it completely turns him on. _Oh, that's what that was all those hours ago… _

Desire pools in his stomach for his detective in ways that he hasn't felt in over two years, the sensation is overwhelming. Seeing Sherlock alive and vital again is so thoroughly attractive to John that he is shocked that he never _really _noticed until now. John is captivated by the notion that he can feel his hands through Sherlock's dark curls again. He is entranced by the idea of kissing Sherlock once more… everywhere his lips can reach. The mere thought of being able to see Sherlock's expression and hear his sounds as he climaxes, sights and sounds that he thought he'd never be able to experience again, nearly pushes John over the edge. He John pants as he thinks cannot stand to be without these things for another minute… and then his desire filled stomach growls. Apparently he has not eaten all day, and he knows Sherlock surely hasn't.

The doctor then checks his watch and realizes that it's nearly six in the afternoon. Stomach empty and heart full, he stops by Angelo's and grabs carryout for both of them and goes back to 221b. John walks back home (_sweet home_) with higher spirits, a new determination, and a much grander plan than he had twelve hours ago when he and his Sherlock parted ways. John Watson, former doctor in Her Majesty's army, is on a mission, and that mission was to get his recently resurrected consulting detective to bed, to relearn every inch of him, to fully regain the closeness that the two of them shared so long ago, too long ago… and this mission had the highest priority.

Sherlock is playing his violin as John enters the stairway of 221b. The shrill notes of a Bach piece pierce John to his core for these are chords he never dreamt he'd hear again. The violinist himself hears John enter the flat and pauses as he smells the sharpness of the garlic in the Italian that his army doctor has brought home.

"Please don't stop," speaks John, infinitely more serene than Sherlock had heard him be just hours ago. "I never thought I'd ever hear you play again." John adds with a note of sadness in his voice that is certainly not lost on the world's only consulting detective.

Sherlock turns to face his doctor and sees the hurt in his voice on his face but there's something else there, something Sherlock recognizes only from their bedroom, but he doesn't get his hopes up. This is, after all, a man who broke his nose earlier this morning. Just to smooth things over Sherlock replies, "I'll never stop playing if that's what you want."

John smiles the first real smile he's had in ages, "no love," he says, "I want to have dinner, but you can definitely play as I set the table."

"Gladly John," Sherlock replies and resumes playing where he left off. Sherlock is so absorbed in his instrument that he does not see the effect him saying his doctor's name has on John, something else John though he'd heard he last of.

After John sets the table with the food, both men begin to eat. Starting slowly at first but finishing at a fever pace as they each recognizes the desire forming in the other's eyes. John is the first to finish and break as he reaches across the table and pulls Sherlock's face to meet his own. The kiss is wet and tastes of garlic but John doesn't care, it's just something else he'd written off after Sherlock fell, but no more.

Sherlock forgets any and all desire for food and scoops his army doctor up and carries him to their bedroom without breaking contact with John's lips. He's waited two years for this and he's not about to stop now because he hasn't finished his pasta. On the way to the bedroom John wraps his legs around the slender waist of the man who he's so fervently missed for two years. Sherlock falls backwards onto the bed with John on top of him, kissing any part of his detective that he can reach. John's jacket quickly is removed and whipped across the room, his jumper follows shortly after.

Sherlock breaks contact with John's lips and begins to unbutton the doctor's shirt, kissing and licking every inch of skin that is revealed, button by button. When the whole shirt is undone Sherlock runs his hands up his doctor's chest and brushes them down his arms, taking John's shirt with them. John then begins breathing into Sherlock's dark curls as his detective falls into the old habit of tracing the scar on his doctor's right shoulder with his lips and tongue. John has always wondered why Sherlock did that, he himself considers the scar the ugliest part of him.

With this thought John decides that he's had enough of Sherlock having all the fun and he pries off his detective's deep navy dressing gown and tosses it next to his jacket. He then begins to mirror Sherlock's actions with his buttons and is shocked when he opens the second button and sees scar tissue underneath. John draws back in surprise and rips Sherlock's shirt off, popping said buttons in the process.

The army doctor realizes, in horror, that it's not just one single scar but many that now cover his love's upper body. It's not just scars that mar Sherlock's once clear pale skin, but cuts and bruises, many of them only looking to be several days old. John's eyes begin water in anger and pain at what has happened to his detective, what John couldn't protect him from. "What-" is all the doctor can manage to choke out at his love as his hands gently begin to trace some of the less painful looking injuries on Sherlock's chest.

"John," began Sherlock, "the people I've been hunting these past two years, aren't some of the most wholesome," continued the detective, "some of them managed to capture me before I could bring down the entire operation and some of them I had to let catch me to gain information." Sherlock paused to place a hand on the side of his army doctor's face and look in his eyes, "It was the only way John, the only way I would be able to see you again was if they were gone. I'd take a thousand times what those cockroaches could dish out if it meant you'd be safe and I could be with you." Sherlock pulled John in for a tenderer kiss than they'd engaged in previously and John tilts Sherlock back until he's lying flat on their bed. John then begins to show each and every scar, cut, scrape and bruise the same care as Sherlock would his bullet scar.

Tracing the outlines of each with his hands first to see if they were too tender to go further noting each and every wince from Sherlock and wishing he could make the sodding bastards who did this to his love pay for every single one. When the rage at Sherlock's former captors becomes too much he reminds himself that his love has already dealt with them and allows the pride he feels for his brave detective to flow through him as he kisses and traces Sherlock's wounds gently with his lips.

John begins this long, sweet process at Sherlock's fingertips and moves slowly up his detective's arms, no scar unkissed, no cut untouched, and trails kisses up Sherlock's shoulders and neck until he reaches his lips. It is here where John plants a kiss on Sherlock so powerful that Sherlock begins to whimper and moan into his doctor's mouth. Into this kiss John pours every ounce of pain and hurt he's endured for the past two years and his tongue impresses into Sherlock the joy that John now feels at his return. As John breaks away from Sherlock's mouth to move south the detective moans again. "John," he pants, "please come back and do that again."

"No love," replies the doctor as he looks into Sherlock's turquoise eyes with his own smoldering blues, "if I come back we'll never finish, and you wouldn't want that." John smirks at Sherlock but plants another, quicker kiss on his lips to satiate him then heads south once more.

As John moves down Sherlock's chest, continuing his loving treatment of Sherlock's injuries, he notes with pride Sherlock's erection straining against the zipper of his trousers. The former army doctor reaches his detectives navel and inserts his tongue into the small hole and works it as he unzips and removes Sherlock's slacks and pants, setting Sherlock's cock free. Sherlock groans at the small blessed friction it provides. John then takes Sherlock into his hands and slowly strokes him. He draws out each and every movement of his hand, each and every pull, for maximum effect. John's hands make such a work of Sherlock that he is practically dripping with precum as he pants "Your turn," breathlessly, moving his hands to John's also bulging zipper. The detective cups his doctor for the first time in two years for a couple of seconds before he actually unzips John's trousers. John moans in appreciation as his love removes his jeans and boxers. He is so overwhelmed by Sherlock in bed, something he'd given up on ever seeing and feeling again, that John cries out as Sherlock takes him in his mouth for the first time in two years. The consulting detective's tongue swirls around his cock in the same way that Sherlock winds around a crime scene, addressing every inch and detail until he is fully satisfied.

"Sherlock," pleads John, "it's been two years and I won't last much longer."

Sherlock pauses in his pleasure giving, "I know love, and for that I am so incredibly sorry," replies Sherlock as he flips, pressing John's back into the mattress. "I'm sorry for every second I left you in doubt and every ounce of pain it caused you," breathed Sherlock, "and right now if you'll let me, I vow to set it right!" Sherlock kissed these words on John, covering his face with them and imprinting them onto his doctor's soul. The detective then sets back on his knees and stares at his army doctor and notes that he's lost weight in his two years absence. As Sherlock worries over a leaner John, the doctor's earlier observations that Sherlock had become more muscled are proven true as John stares at the detectives defined abdominal and pectoral muscles. These sights are enough to send John wild with lust and he grabs his love's neck and yanks him down to meet his lips. Their tongues battle for dominance, dancing their old dance which John thought he had forgotten long ago.

"Please tell me you have some kind of lube," Sherlock moans into John's mouth.

"Same place it's always been love," replies John in kind, "bedside table drawer, right where we left it." Sherlock doesn't give a damn that the lube is nearly two years old and nearly yanks the drawer onto the floor in his rush to acquire it. The now extremely impatient detective pops the cap on the bottle and slathers the fluid onto his cock and squirts a generous amount into his hands for his love.

John lies back and tilts his hips towards Sherlock in anticipation of what's to come, not even bothering to place a pillow under his hips; he needs his detective inside him… NOW! Sherlock goes to his knees in between John's muscular legs, _nice to see that hasn't changed, _thinks Sherlock. Slowly, Sherlock begins to prepare his army doctor, slathering lube in circles around John's opening. John moans in sweet release as Sherlock inserts a single finger inside and begins to knead away the tension. God he was so tight, it really had been a while. Sherlock smirks inwardly, John hadn't strayed in two years, and there certainly had been none other than Sherlock who had been here with the good doctor. When Sherlock inserts a second finger John cries out, "Sherlock!" Sherlock recognizes it for what it is: a cry of pleasure, not pain, and continues to work his love open. Occasionally Sherlock's fingers brush John's prostate and is answered by small whimpers from the army doctor. When Sherlock inserts a third finger into John he nearly comes then and there, animalistic moans streaming from the doctors lips like prayers.

"God Sherlock!" exasperates John, "If you don't fuck me this instant so help me…"

"As you wish John," chuckles Sherlock, positioning himself above John. Slowly the detective inserts himself into John, sighing as he passes through each band of muscle. "Oh John," gasps Sherlock at the familiar pressure. When he finally adjusts to the feel of his doctor, Sherlock begins to move; long slow strokes that brush John's prostate with every thrust. For all the pleasure it gives Sherlock, it's still not enough, the detective only wants more of his doctor. He wants to erase every single moment that they have been apart with every plunge into John. "John," begs Sherlock. The doctor opens his eyes, previously closed in euphoria, and looks directly into his loves sharp blue orbs.

Reading his partners mind and finally falling back into stride with the love of his life, John increases the angle of his hips to allow Sherlock in further, but that's still not enough. Sherlock grabs both of the army doctor's legs, lifting them over his shoulders, and buries himself to the hilt in John. "Sherlock," cries his doctor, "Oh God, Sherlock, I've missed this… I've missed YOU!"

John's cries utterly destroy any composure Sherlock still had. John, his John, his Amy Doctor… still loved him. "Oh John," pants the detective, "you don't know how much I've missed you too," Sherlock increases the velocity and frequency at which he rams into John. John trembles under Sherlock, yet again on the verge of orgasm. Sherlock feels John constricting around him as he rams into him. He takes one hand from where it's placed on John's thigh and reaches down between his doctor's legs. Slowly with the pad of his thumb he starts stroking John's cock, smoothing the excess of precum all over the head and then moving to start stroking its full length in rhythm with his thrusts into John.

Half a dozen slow, agonizing beats in John shouts, "Sherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherl…." His voice trailing off as his orgasm shakes him so hard the bed rocks. The sight of his army doctor finally falling to pieces and shouting his name under him utterly breaks Sherlock.

"Jaaawwwwwnnnn!" yells Sherlock as he is overtaken with his own climax. Both men blank out, overcome with the overwhelming amounts of pleasure that they each have given to the other. This pleasure is not just from the mind blowing sex that just occurred, oh no. This is the pleasure of reunion, of falling back into the same bed together, of the returning love that one spent every day waiting for and the other never though he'd feel again.

When both men finally come to Sherlock is splayed across John, the doctor's arms around his waist, clutching as if he'll never let go. For what feels like forever they both lay there, Sherlock softening inside John, listening to the doctors heart thrum against his chest, and John simply listening to the shallow breathing he'd given up on ever hearing again. Finally, after not nearly enough time, Sherlock eases out of John and wraps him in his arms instead, the smaller man's head resting on his shoulder. John relinquishes one arm's hold on Sherlock's waste to pull up the covers around the two men so they don't catch cold when they do finally fall asleep in each other's arms.

"Sherlock?" murmurs John into the younger man's chest.

"Hmm yes, John," answers Sherlock, nearly asleep in his post coital bliss.

"When you were dead, I went to your grave," Breathed the doctor.

"I should hope so," laughed the detective, John smiles along.

"I made a little speech. I actually spoke to you." Sherlock turns at John's words, planting a kiss on the top of his head.

"I know. I was there." He answered, remembering the emotion playing on John's face two years ago. The detective nearly broke his cover then and there in his wish to run and comfort the man he loved more than life itself.

"I asked you for one more miracle," rambled John, "I asked you to stop being dead." He finished, turning his own head to look into Sherlock's eyes as he spoke.

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath at the memory of John, trembling as he shed tear over the smooth black tombstone. It was that sight that kept Sherlock moving over the two years, the knowledge that his return could take the tears away from John. Sherlock also vowed that when he returned never allow another tear to fall ever again. Sherlock smiled at John, the man he would never allow to cry again, and moved his head down to meet John's mouth. With all of Sherlock's love flowing from him to John as well as the unspoken assurance that the long lonely days were over, all Sherlock could manage into John's lips was, "I heard you."


End file.
